He went to his library that morning, as he had finished rereading A Tale of Two Cities the night before. He was considering Dostoyevsky, but it occurred to him that he'd never actually read The Death of Ivan Ilyich, so he took that, instead. The need for books to be made of paper had long since passed, but he liked them all the same, just as he liked tending to his vegetable garden, even though he could have any meal at any time: There was plenty of room for controlled environments, after all, even with full-year cycles of staggered growth; since he was the only human left alive, growing them that way wasn't especially difficult.
He sat outside today, as it happened to be sunny and still. He had had the machinery stop controlling the weather, since that was boring. He sat down, stopped, and thought to himself. He missed them all, really: every human who had ever lived.